Abel the Prophet

You can keep Elijah. I talk to Abel.

“Shabbat Dinner,” an installation at the Tel Aviv Museum of Art. A chair for every hostage.

Then God said, “What have you done? Listen: your brother Abel’s blood cries out to Me from the ground!" — Genesis 4:10

Everyone knows about Elijah. Elijah visits you on Passover night and drinks a little wine. He attends every circumcision. He helps people at their worst moments, always in disguise.

You can keep Elijah. I talk to Abel.

At night, I leave a glass of wine for him on the kitchen counter, in case he is thirsty, and also a knife, in case he would like to avenge his own murder. In the morning, the wine is always gone, but the blade is always cold and sterile.

*

Elijah is always slipping out. You’ve always just missed him. I suppose it’s because he didn’t quite die, but was only deported from this world on a chariot of fire; he returns periodically and leaves again before it is noticed. “Who were you talking to?” I say and the other rabbis say, “It was Elijah, you must have missed him, and anyway it was a private conversation.” But Abel is always here, in the topsoil, under every footprint. Elijah returns because he left the world without dying; Abel returns because he introduced death to the world. Aristotle said that the world lasts forever; we said that the world began. Abel comes between them and says: the world began but my death is forever. There was no other way.

*

At night Abel comes to teach me Torah. “There is pain everywhere,” he says. “Can you hear it?” It is very quiet outside. A dog barks in the distance. Somewhere far away someone is practicing the violin. I furrow my brow. “I can’t—“ “Listen closer,” Abel said, and closes his hand over my eyes. Yes, there is something else—in a cold and remote place, very faint. Someone is crying—sobbing. Abel takes his hand away and I look at him, puzzled, my face saying, “Who?” A smile is trapped in the corners of Abel’s mouth; he gestures, sticking his chin out towards me slightly and turning his eyes up. “He’s never stopped,” Abel says. The next night I heard it again. It is always there now. Like a ringing in the ears.

*

Once I met Abel at a carnival. My children were there. “Children, do you know who this is?” I said, and bring them to his hand. They do it neutrally; to them he is a distant relative they cannot wait to forget. I make a note to remind them of this moment when they are older and can understand.

“What brings you here?” I said.

He shrugs. “It feels like home,” he says. He is holding candy floss on a stick. “Also, Elijah never comes here. No circumcisions to attend.”

We look together at the feats of strength. A man steps up to a plate with a comically large hammer; he is not muscular, but when he brings it up over his head and down on the plate it feels powerful and slightly dangerous anyway. The family stands at a safe distance behind him, cheering him on. Abel’s eyes suddenly begin to unfocus and I feel that he has gone somewhere else inside. I look down, and I notice that he is not wearing any shoes. His toes curl into the dirt.

“Do you ever speak with God?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Abel. “I spoke with God yesterday. We speak often.”

“And what was God doing?”

“What do you mean? He was speaking to me.”

“That’s all?” I said, confused. “Only speaking to you? Not tying crowns to Torah scrolls? Not commenting on world events?”

Abel shakes his head. “No. I always have God’s full attention.”

*

When the night of Passover is almost over, I get up to open the door so that Elijah can join us, just for the end. “Pour our your wrath on the nations who do not know You—“ I recite. “God knows they deserve it.” There is nobody there; cold wind howls into the room for a moment, chilling everyone, and I shut the door quickly. Inside, Abel is staring at Elijah’s cup, which is always full. “Red or white?” I ask him for the fourth time that night, a bottle in each hand. He shakes his head again. He looks at the base of my glass, where a few drops have been spilled. Abel presses a forefinger into one, brings the finger to his lips. He closes his eyes. “I have enough,” he sighs. “I am never full, but there is always enough."